


you tattered me, you tethered me to you

by thatsparrow



Category: Original Work
Genre: English Renaissance, Getting to Know Each Other, M/M, Religious Imagery & Symbolism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-30
Updated: 2020-08-30
Packaged: 2021-03-06 23:07:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,590
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26186896
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thatsparrow/pseuds/thatsparrow
Summary: The painter is already at work when Father Wylde arrives that morning.
Relationships: Church Painter Who May Be The Devil/Village Priest
Comments: 8
Kudos: 32
Collections: Short August Medieval Exchange 2020





	you tattered me, you tethered me to you

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Ficbot5000 (Kryptontease)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kryptontease/gifts).



> written with a high school-level remembrance of catholicism and art history, so apologies for any glaring historical errors
> 
> title from "lake song" by the decemberists

The painter is already at work when William arrives that morning, chalking a sketch across the stretch of wall running to the left of the pews. At the sound of the door, he lifts his head, turning to face William with a look of curiosity that soon shifts to one of surprise when he sees the white of William's collar. Sheepish, almost, like he'd been caught taking sips of the communion wine.

"Apologies, Father, I didn't see you there." He steps forward, smiling now, tucking the chalk behind his ear and roughly wiping his hand on his trousers before extending it to William. "Roger Goodwin. I believe you were expecting me?" He's a little older than William had expected from the diocese's letter—not yet forty, but likely not far from it either—with shadows of grey at his temples and the tracks of laugh lines around his eyes. His handshake is firm, though. Steady. William returns the smile.

"The apology is mine, Mr. Goodwin, I hadn't intended to startle you. I'm Father Wylde," William says. "It's an honor to have you at our parish. I've heard nothing but praise for your work." He tilts his head to the wall behind Mr. Goodwin, close enough now to see the delicate, chalk-marked lines of a forest blooming across the plaster, lush even in silhouette. In the foreground, a woman stands beneath one of the trees, her arm outstretched for the fruit hanging above her head. "It's clear those reports were not overstated."

Mr. Goodwin lets out a slight laugh. "You're too kind, Father. It's still early in the process—plenty of time yet for me to disappoint you and your flock."

"An unlikely outcome, I'm sure. You've seen your canvas, Mr. Goodwin," William says, nodding to the interior of the church, relatively unadorned from the whitewashed plaster to the simple, square-paned windows. "There are a great many things I find beautiful about this building, but its walls are not high on that list. Undoubtedly anything you add will be an improvement."

"Of all the clients I've worked with, I commend you for having the most manageable expectations." He glances at the papers in William's hands. "I'm not disturbing you, am I? I'd hope to make some headway before the morning mass, but I can always resume in the afternoon."

William waves a hand. "Please, continue. Ordinarily I find myself alone here while preparing for the early service, but to have company would be a welcome change. Tell me—" he steps forward, tilting his head at the sketch. From this vantage, it seems Mr. Goodwin has rendered three separate serpents in the garden: one coiled at the base of the tree, one curved around the bough above the fruit, and one looped around Eve's shoulder and outstretched arm like a scaled shawl. "Has my memory grown hazier than I realized, or were we raised on different verses of Genesis? 

Mr. Goodwin looks back at the wall, then laughs again, his mouth curving in that similar, sheepish smile. "Your memory is not at fault, Father, nor my upbringing—not in this regard, at least. No, though I'd like to claim some elevated sense of biblical interpretation, this is only reflective of a moment of artistic indecision." His mouth twists, a little wry. "That is, I still can't choose which placement of the serpent I prefer."

"Would a second opinion be helpful? Admittedly, I'm no artist, but—" 

"Please do," Mr. Goodwin says. "I could use the benefit of another's perspective." He moves to the side as William crosses between the pews, stepping a careful path around the tarp and supplies that Mr. Goodwin has assembled at the base of the wall. Now, standing just in front of the sketch, William can better discern the meticulous level of detail in Mr. Goodwin's work, from the carefully outlined menagerie moving with ease amongst the flora, to the gentle current of a river flowing between the hills, to the subtle crease of curiosity in Eve's brow. He clears his throat, redirecting his focus to the various iterations of the serpent.

"Here, around the tree, is certainly a familiar image. I've seen him placed in the bough above the fruit, too. But this—" William indicates the version looped around Eve's arm, "—I don't believe I've seen this before, with the two of them thus entwined. It's—intimate, in a sense. As if they reached for the fruit together." 

"An idea I had while revisiting those verses," Mr. Goodwin says, stepping forward to stand beside William. "The notion of it as intimacy hadn't occurred to me, but I do see it. Not quite a lovers' embrace, but not wholly unlike it, either—not to imply that there was anything so untoward between them." A pause, a tilt of his head. "Though I'd put good money on the fiend for having considered it."

William lets out a laugh without meaning to, swallowing the rest of the sound behind his hand. He smooths the remnants of a smile from his mouth, then nods to the sketch. "It is an interesting interpretation, to be sure—in a sense of agency, rather than intimacy, I mean. With the serpent positioned thus, as if it guides Eve's hand to the fruit, it seems to somewhat absolve her of the action. They share the decision, rather than it being hers alone."

"I have always thought that poor Eve was given a rather unfair shake," Mr. Goodwin says. "Who can fault her for having been swayed by the serpent's words? Who among us wouldn't be tempted by the knowledge of good and evil—to be as a god?" He glances to William, then tilts his head, conceding. "Though, perhaps the decision would be simpler for one as steadfast as a man of the cloth."

"Oaths or no, it is surely a great temptation, and thus would require all the more resolve to resist it." Still staring at the sketch, William flexes his hand, as if he too could reach for the fruit hanging barely an arm's breadth from his own fingertips. "I appreciate the confidence, Mr. Goodwin, but while I do find solace in the measure of my own faith, I can say with no absolute certainty that I would have chosen differently. Eve was not alone in finding the words of the serpent—persuasive. Charming, even."

"You think him charming?" Mr. Goodwin is smiling again, but it's with surprise rather than mockery—shared with William, rather than at his expense.

"Perhaps that was a poor choice of words. Disarming, rather." True enough, he could say something similar about the look Mr. Goodwin is giving him. William glances away, supposes the sun now falling through the windows is to blame for the slight warmth he feels in his cheeks. "Do you disagree?" 

"No, not in the slightest." Some of the amusement softens from Mr. Goodwin's smile. "I have always thought the serpent to be quite the charismatic sort myself, I'm just not familiar with members of the clergy expressing the same. Their choice of descriptor tends to be less kind and more colorful. Fire-and-brimstone language."

"True—though, in their favor, I certainly wouldn't describe him as innocent."

"No, no, of course not." Mr. Goodwin frowns a little, hesitating. "Although—and I hope you won't think ill of me for saying so, Father—I've always wondered if you couldn't see the serpent as having done Eve a favor, in a sense. Or, at least, that the outcome of the decision wasn't quite so categorically sinful."

A crease runs through William's brow. "You'd argue in favor of her having eaten the fruit?"

"I'm not entirely sure that I'd argue against it. Yes, doing so violated the Lord's command, but what might have happened to Adam and Eve if the fruit had gone untasted? Would their descendants have been raised similarly in the garden, content in their obliviousness? What sort of future would that have been?"

William inclines his head to the sketch, to the chalked hills of greenery, to the bounty that would leave no one wanting. "Eden was built for mankind. It was a paradise."

Mr. Goodwin smiles at him, a little too knowing. "Would that truly be your idea of paradise, Father Wylde? Or would you only think it so for not having known anything else?"

There's a curiosity in Mr. Goodwin's expression that sits funny in William's stomach, a slight unease he would almost characterize as guilt. Likelier that it's far too early for such bold interpretations, and meanwhile there's a service he's meant to be preparing—though the notion of taking a seat in the pews and continuing to converse with Mr. Goodwin through the morning is an awfully tempting one. He looks away back to the sketch, clearing his throat. "It's a unique conclusion to be sure, but I'm not entirely certain our parishioners would feel the same. Perhaps the serpent in the boughs is the most suitable choice—for our walls, at least." 

Mr. Goodwin blinks, that curious expression of his fading in a moment, a neutral, polite smile in its place. William feels the barest flicker of disappointment at seeing it go. "Of course, Father," Mr. Goodwin says, reaching out to smudge the chalk lines encircling Eve's arm from the wall. "As you wish."

—

After ten years in the clergy—and six of them spent at this particular church—William has developed a familiar pattern to his days; that changes, in unpredicted yet not unpleasant fashion, with the arrival of Mr. Goodwin. Where once William was reliably the first to arrive in the morning, it becomes habit instead to see Mr. Goodwin already present when he steps inside. Indeed, he commends Mr. Goodwin on a work ethic that exceeds even his own, building on his fresco before the morning mass, throughout the day between services, and often staying until well after the evening lamps have been lit.

"You don't worry for your eyes?" William asks one evening as Mr. Goodwin shifts the placement of a nearby lantern, adjusting the light before adding spring-green highlights to a stretch of foliage. (It's become familiar, too, for William to be found seated in the pews nearby when he has a moment to spare, or conversing with Mr. Goodwin into the evenings while working on his homilies. The sound of brush against stone is surprisingly meditative, and—borderline heretical interpretations of the Bible aside—Mr. Goodwin is an easy, enticing conversationalist.) "I was prescribed a pair of glasses a few years ago and still haven't quite adjusted to the need of them."

Mr. Goodwin smiles, and there, too, is another new familiarity; unsurprising that his eyes are already marked with laugh lines when humor sits so readily on his face. "Not particularly. I could worry for my hands, too, or my wrists, but it seems terribly exhausting—fretting over all the misfortunes that may befall me. I'll likely need glasses at some point, or have to limit my working hours to the daylight, but I see no reason in concerning myself over an eventuality." He pauses, mixing a dab of yellow into the green. "For whatever my opinion may be worth, I think the glasses look rather dignified. They suit you."

A blessing that Mr. Goodwin had glanced back to his work in that moment, and so missed the flush of color at the back of William's neck. "You flatter as well as you paint."

"Which could very well mean that I do both poorly." Mr. Goodwin laughs a little at the look of concern on William's face. "Only a joke, Father. I'd never suspect you of such an underhanded comment. Both you and your words are too well-intentioned."

Funny, as there are moments now when William catches himself noticing the muscles shifting in Mr. Goodwin's back as he works—or finds himself lingering on the warm, wicked curve of Mr. Goodwin's smile—and his thoughts slip to a place that he wouldn't characterize as 'well-intentioned' at all.

—

As the days pass, William watches the painted garden blossom across the wall while Mr. Goodwin performs his own act of creation. Across the sectioned-off stretch of plaster blooms olive trees and branches laden with wine-purple figs, the blue ribbon of river that unfurls into the Euphrates, a herd of sloe-eyed wildlife moving among the velvet-lush greenery of the landscape. Adam, frozen in motion in the midground, and the determined stretch of Eve's figure at the painting's focus—the serpent nestled in the agreed-upon spot in the boughs. Only last does Mr. Goodwin add the sunset-orange strokes of the fruit, bright and ripe and rendered in such detail that it nearly seems it could be plucked whole from the wall. Temptation indeed, and the hunger in Eve's face easy to understand.

It's only after Mr. Goodwin has finished that William notices a slight incongruity among the branches of the tree at the painting's foreground; there seems to be the subtlest dip in the bend of the bough holding the fruit, almost as if the serpent—or, perhaps, some other force altogether—were lowering it to Eve's hand. 

—

"You have an interesting taste in verses," William remarks a few weeks later as Mr. Goodwin sketches the latest addition to the fresco, by now a series of panels extending from Eden at the back left of the church and running a slow tapestry towards the altar at the front.

" _Interesting_ can mean a great many things, and not all of them positive," Mr. Goodwin says, with what William now recognizes as a teasing edge to his smile. "I hope you don't disapprove, Father."

"On the contrary," William says, swallowing past the slight dryness in his throat, "I've always been intrigued by the story of Job. Another lesson in temptation, but one in which Job holds fast to his faith despite such unimaginable pressure to do otherwise. To still believe despite losing so much—who among us could manage the same?" The expression on Mr. Goodwin's face shifts to one of curiosity—focused, though, as if he were looking at William through a lens. William can nearly feel the weight of that stare as a physical thing, and so glance away, turning instead to consider the sketch in greater detail. Here, too, Mr. Goodwin's penchant for non-traditional perspectives asserts itself—while Job still sits at the painting's focus, the viewer instead looks at him from above, knelt down among the graves of his children as God and—set slightly behind him, face angled away—Satan observe his suffering.

"If you don't mind me asking," William says, after he's finished surveying the sketch, "why this particular vantage? It's intriguing, but unusual."

Mr. Goodwin smiles now, amused, teasing. "My inclination towards nonconformity asserting itself, I suppose—I was considered quite the rebel in my youth." Then the smile fades, replaced by something more stoic—perhaps the first time all the laughter has been smoothed from Mr. Goodwin's face since he and William had been introduced. "Likelier still that this is the moment I find least able to understand, and so wanted to consider it from God's perspective." He exhales, slow, considering the image. "Of all the trials that Job endures, this one always struck me as the most disproportionate—the least able to be recompensed by what blessings God bestows on Job by the chapter's end. To lose his worldly possessions and even his health is one matter, but to lose his children? All for the sake of some gambit between God and Satan?"

There's a low note of bitterness in Mr. Goodwin's voice, jarring from his usual honey-rich tenor. William follows his eyes to where they've focused on the sketch—to the look of near impassivity on God's face. He frowns slightly. "You blame God for the death of Job's children?"

Mr. Goodwin turns to him, his expression thorny (though, William thinks, directed more at the depiction of God than of himself.) "You don't?"

"Surely you can't fault God for the deeds of Satan?"

"I make no apologies or excuses for his actions, but neither would I ignore that every misery inflicted upon Job is done so with God's approval, confined within the bounds that God sets for Satan's tests. 'Behold, all that he hath is in thy power; only upon himself put not forth thine hand.' As far as God seems to be concerned, Job's children are an acceptable collateral damage."

The edge in Mr. Goodwin's voice is rough enough to chip the plaster. William's brow pulls together in concern. "It is not for us to understand the will of God, Mr. Goodwin, nor to presume his intentions. Yes, it is true that God does not specifically exempt Job's children from Satan's acts, but neither does he order any of the harm that befalls Job. To acknowledge that Satan has the power to test Job is hardly the same as commanding it himself."

Again, Mr. Goodwin's expression shifts, but now there is something verging on unkindness there. Some sharp edge of disbelief at the depths of William's naivety. "Consider, Father—who was it that first brought Job to Satan's attention? Who was it that placed Job on a pedestal as the pinnacle of faith and piety? Why call such notice to the strength of his belief and the extent of his wealth if God did not _want_ Job to be tested, and found in Satan an ally to accomplish the task?"

"God's motives are not meant for us—"

"His _children_ , Father. What could ever justify the pain of such a loss?"

"It is not our place to question—"

"Bull _shit_ ," Mr. Goodwin says, loud enough that were any still in the church at this hour, they surely would have heard. Loud enough to startle William to silence, for even Mr. Goodwin to seem surprised at the depths of his own anger. "I'm sorry, Father, but I don't believe that, and I can't imagine that you do. Not in truth—not between us, here."

Were William to look down, he'd see that his hands are trembling slightly. With such conviction in his voice, it'd seem Mr. Goodwin is the one who belongs at the pulpit, rather than himself. (Were he willing to examine the sentiment further, he'd find, too, an unfamiliar but not unwelcome frisson of want at the way Mr. Goodwin watches him, at the depth of feeling in the words _not between us, here_.) He feels torn between the pull of Mr. Goodwin's words and the bedrock of his faith and altogether terrified at which direction he'd like to allow himself to be persuaded. After a moment, William swallows, heavy. "Then why paint it?"

"Excuse me?"

"Weeks now, you've labored over our walls, but why spend your time thus if that is how you feel? For a laugh? To spite the Church? Whatever intent you bring to this work, surely you must know that the parishioners won't intuit it, so why paint it? Why are you here, truly?"

Some of the frustration fades as Mr. Goodwin looks at him slowly, thoughtfully, with such care that William can almost imagine him at the foot of some rotted staircase, testing each step before trusting it with his weight. Whatever he must see in William's face, though, is enough to keep him from ascending further. A blank, polite mask slides over his features, touched with a version of his smile that William has yet to see before and no interest in seeing again. "Why does anyone do anything, Father? Because I have a talent for it, and because there's money to be made."

Now it's William's turn to look surprised, to say, "I don't believe that."

The smile persists. "Believe it or don't, but that won't change its veracity." 

Some split feels as if it's opened between them, wide enough to swallow William whole. He stands from the pews. "It's late, and I should be going. Have a good evening, Mr. Goodwin."

He inclines his head before turning back to the sketch. "You as well, Father Wylde."

—

William hadn't given a great deal of thought to the nature of his relationship with Mr. Goodwin prior to that evening, but however he might have described it before, undoubtedly it experiences a shift in the days after. Pleasantries remain, but as if now coated in a layer of frost. Though Mr. Goodwin maintains similar, extensive hours, William no longer joins him in the pews while preparing for the morning service or to indulge in conversation in the evening. He does watch, though, as the section on Job comes together, splendid in composition and artistry even knowing Mr. Goodwin's misgivings on the subject matter.

In the days that Mr. Goodwin spends on the fresco, William also finds himself returning to those particular verses of Job more often than would be his custom—certainly more often than he'd care to admit. Indeed, with Mr. Goodwin's interpretation in mind, the story he'd once understood as a testament to the power of faith takes on a markedly different tone, as if the words themselves had grown sour. What sort of god would see the wealth bestowed upon Job as any sort of replacement for the children that'd he lost? What justification could be made for the deaths of those who'd worked Job's land, taken from their own families with as little fanfare as the loss of crops and livestock? There's a capriciousness to God's actions that now sits uncomfortably apparent to William, as plain and unignorable as if red ink had bled into the page.

— 

It's three days later that William decides he's ready for a thaw to the endless, impenetrable politeness that has frozen over between him and Mr. Goodwin. (True that he misses Mr. Goodwin as a conversationalist, and maybe truer still that he misses the familiar warmth of Mr. Goodwin's smile.) It's early when he arrives at the church, but rather than bearing a path to his office—as has become his new custom—he lets his feet carry him toward the front of the hall where Mr. Goodwin is at work. At the sound of the footsteps coming to a halt behind him, Mr. Goodwin pauses, turns, looking curious, but not entirely displeased.

"Good morning, Father."

"And to you, Mr. Goodwin."

The look of curiosity persists as William makes no move to leave, pleasantries now aside. Mr. Goodwin raises an eyebrow. "Is there something I can assist you with?"

"In a manner." William clears his throat, feeling oddly, inexplicably nervous. "I was wondering if you might consider joining me for dinner, or perhaps a drink? I don't mean to be forward," William says, quick, not entirely sure how to parse Mr. Goodwin's expression. "And if you are uninterested, or otherwise occupied, of course I understand. However, if you do have the time and inclination, I would rather enjoy hearing more of your thoughts on scripture—if not Job, then certainly other verses."

Mr. Goodwin pauses, considering, then nods. "I would indeed. Shall I meet you in your office for a drink, say at seven?"

William smiles, rewarded by a matching expression from Mr. Goodwin. "I look forward to it."

—

"You're not a believer, are you?"

Mr. Goodwin smiles around the lip of his glass, settled easy and languid in the chair opposite William's desk. "Is that what you think?"

"Am I incorrect?"

He takes a slow sip of the scotch and shrugs. "I've seen far too much to rule out faith altogether, but I won't deny that my understanding of God is likely a different one than what's sold in Sunday sermons."

His voice is light, teasing, but there's the echo of something more series there. William raises an eyebrow. "You think I'm selling something?"

"Not you, Father Wylde—never you—but the Church? Absolutely." Mr. Goodwin finishes the remainder of the glass and, with William's assent, pours himself another. "You don't?"

"I'm not sure I'd be a man of the cloth if I did."

"Faith in God is different than faith in an institution. Even with my own misgivings of Him, I'd place far more assurance in the former."

There's the rub of it, then. "So tell me, who is your God?"

Mr. Goodwin leans back, but there's a practiced looseness to it, like he's worked out exactly how much tension to bleed out of his muscles to seem easy and unaffected. Perhaps if William knew him less well, he'd be convinced; as it stands, the flex of his fingers around the glass belies the deeper weight of his emotion. "More human than He'd care to admit, mostly. I'd call Him a hypocrite, but given our conversation over Job, I've no desire to offend you further."

William laughs a little. "I think we've passed the point of offense, Mr. Goodwin. A hypocrite?"

"How often does God insist that He is not to be tested—how often does His son parrot those same words when demands of proof are made of him—and yet how often does He test the faith of His followers? From humanity's start, God played games to have us prove ourselves worthy." Mr. Goodwin gestures with his glass beyond the walls of the office, out to the hall where the first panel in the fresco sits. "Why build Eden around the Tree if not to test Adam and Eve? Newborns to a world of his creation, and already he toyed with them."

"It was the serpent who guided them to it."

"True, but if God never intended for them to be tested, why not give them a home free from any temptation? Why not settle Adam and Eve in a place with no opportunity for transgression whatsoever?"

William tilts his head, conceding. "I can't say. I could tell you that it's not meant for us to know, or that the workings of God are not ours to divine, but I have a feeling you wouldn't find that a very satisfying answer. Though—" William counters, "—if it were straightforward, or satisfactory, it wouldn't require faith. You are not the only one with questions, Mr. Goodwin, but it is specifically despite those uncertainties and confusions that I believe." 

"Which is an admirable trait, certainly, even if I disagree with the end to which it's directed." Mr. Goodman swills the scotch in his glass. "Admittedly It's been some time since I've had such conviction in anything myself." The look he gives William when he says that is unusual, loaded, but too tangled by the scotch and his own uncertainty for William to pick apart.

"I can't offer you my faith—nor do I think you'd take it if I could—but perhaps I might help you find your conviction elsewhere?" William suggests. "Not in God, nor in an institution, but in a person." He clears his throat. "A friend."

Mr. Goodwin smiles at that, warm and wide. "You'd offer me your friendship as a basis for my faith?"

"I would," William says, feeling a telltale heat at the back of his neck. At least Mr. Goodwin doesn't seem displeased or inclined to scorn the suggestion.

"I can think of many beliefs rooted in less solid a bedrock than your trust and friendship, Father Wylde," Mr. Goodwin says. "But if we are to be friends, then I insist you leave the formalities aside. 'Mr. Goodwin' makes me feel a decade older than my years, and heavens know I've enough of them already. 'Roger' is more than fine."

"Only if you return the favor by calling me 'William.'"

"William," Mr. Goodwin— _Roger_ , William corrects himself—says, as if testing out the shape of it. He raises his glass in a toast. "I'd be honored."

—

As the fresco reaches the altar and curves around to the opposing wall, Roger shifts from Old Testament to New. One of the first sections that he paints returns to his well-worn theme of temptation, here featuring Jesus during his forty-day trial in the desert.

"Were I a betting man," William says, settling into the neighboring pews, "I'd have put coin on you including these verses."

Roger laughs. "Am I that predictable?"

"Likelier that I've had plenty of opportunity to become familiar with how you think. That said, I'm never averse to hearing the thought process behind your compositions, if you're inclined to share." Though this is the moment when Christ is thrice-tempted by Satan, Roger's chosen scene is far simpler: Jesus alone in the wilderness, isolated and grown bone-thin from hunger, and the barest shape of a shadow in the distance that would seem to indicate Satan's approach.

"I'd have expected you to grow weary of listening to my butchered interpretations by now, William."

(Funny, as he would have expected not to feel still so elated at the sound of Roger saying his name, and yet.) "I'd never. Clergyman or no, your analyses are always enlightening. Refreshing, even."

Roger shakes his head slightly, but the gesture is fond, as is the smile that comes with it. "This one, at least, should be free of anything verging on heresy." He tucks the chalk behind his ear and takes a seat in the row of pews just in front of William's, angled around so that he can see both William and the wall. "Given that the story of the temptations is recounted in three of the gospels, I wanted to consider each of those versions against the other—to note where they diverged as much as to chart their overlap."

William nods. He's familiar with each set of verses himself, but there's something rather enticing in the way Roger describes it—heady, like a deep lungful of too-fresh air. 

"Of the three, Matthew and Luke list the same series of temptations—albeit varying slightly in their order—but Mark only devotes two verses to the entire venture, and goes into no detail of the temptations themselves. In what little space he does allow, however, he makes specific note of the fact that Jesus was driven into the wilderness, that he was there for forty days, and that he spent that time among the wild beasts, sans companionship. In devising the painting, I wanted to fixate on that sense of isolation—to say nothing of the physical hunger he must have felt after forty days, the hunger, too, for the presence of another. To hear a voice other than his own." Roger trails off, but there's something unfinished about the thought, apparent as half-built scaffolding. William nods for him to continue, and after a moment's hesitation, he does.

"I suppose—I'd wondered whether, given such circumstances, given such profound isolation, would not the arrival of anyone offer some sense of solace? Would not the words of Satan even prove to be something of a welcome presence? Likely a foolish thought, but it seemed an intriguing notion to consider—that anyone might feel some measure of reassurance at Satan's arrival." William is quiet for a moment, considering, and in the silence, Roger clears his throat slightly and pulls himself from the pews. "Like I said, foolish."

"Not what I expected," William says, quick, offering a reassuring smile. "But certainly not foolish. No, I—" now it's his turn to trail off, to feel the next words stuck fast in his throat. But if Roger trusted him, surely he can do the same. "I'd only begun thinking how I was going to miss this, when your work is done." _Miss you_ , he thinks—but, no, to say that would indeed be foolish.

Roger smiles, but it's slow to come, and limned with something melancholy. "I hadn't expected it, Thomas, upon my arrival, but I believe I will as well." 

—

Whether as a result of their time together slowly drawing to a close, or simply in reflection of the acknowledgment of their friendship, it becomes not uncommon for Roger to join William for a drink at the end of the day—never to the point of overindulgence for either of them, but certainly more than William would have enjoyed in the past, enough to oil some of the stiffness from his shoulders. 

"Were you always resolved to join the clergy?" Roger asks one night, pouring himself another glass; as he does, William finds himself distracted by the stains of blue and white paint around his nail beds, and then by the sharp, steady lines of Roger's hands. He clears his throat, bringing himself back to the moment.

"Not remotely. It was only something I began to consider in my late twenties, after a fair few years of youthful indiscretions."

Roger laughs. "You?"

"I know you see before you an upright member of the Church, but as a younger man, I was quite the ruffian."

" _Ruffian_ —now _that_ sounds more like the William I know." Roger's grin fades, replaced by something more contemplative as he looks across the desk. "You don't find it lonely at all, though? There are a great many reasons I'd never considered joining the clergy, but the lack of a romantic partner was certainly high on the list."

William takes a slow sip to settle the sudden dryness in his throat. "Not particularly." _Not usually_ , he holds on his tongue. "I hadn't particularly prioritized romantic relationships before joining the Church, and afterward, I found that the community within the parish more than satisfied any fleeting feelings of loneliness I might have had." Never mind the weight of loneliness he now feels at saying goodbye to Roger in the evenings, or the equal burst of affection when he returns to the church in the morning. He clears his throat. "And what of you, Roger? Have you always dreamt of being a painter?"

Roger shakes his head, not so much smiling now as pulling back the corners of his mouth. "Not exactly. I had my own moments of waywardness in my youth, not to mention a—complicated relationship with my father."

"I'm sorry to hear that."

"It's fine, it's not an uncommon story. Likely we were both at fault—myself going through a period of rebellion, and him rather unyielding in his judgments—but both of us damned before either of us could see that, or admit it. These days, I like to think there's some measure of peace between us, but likely that's because we don't encounter much of each other anymore." He lets out an exhale, something William could almost mistake for a laugh if he knew Roger less well. "Apologies, William, I don't mean to burden you with that. The messy history I share with my father is hardly your concern."

William waves a hand, immediate. "None of that. We're friends, aren't we?" Never mind that his voice sticks a little on the word _friends_ , but that's his own burden to manage. "I'm always happy to hear your thoughts, or to share whatever weights might be too heavy to carry alone."

Roger inclines his head in understanding. "A true friend, indeed. Perhaps I'm being foolish again—it's just been quite some time since I've spoken of my father to anyone." He tilts his head a little, considering William. "Then again, you have proven unusually and remarkably easy to talk to. That's a rare gift—fitting for a rare man."

Blame the flutter in his stomach on the scotch rather than the way Roger is looking at him, and even so William feels himself flushing like a schoolboy. "If any gift allows me to know you better, then it is indeed a worthy one."

"If only your parishioners knew how you could flatter," Roger says, smiling easy and fond. He's still lounged back in the chair on the other side of the desk, but William would swear he sees something shift in Roger's eyes, discerning and star-bright. "Flattery aside, William, you already know me better than you think—better than anyone has in some time. Whatever I may have anticipated before being sent here, be sure that you have surpassed any of those expectations."

William shakes his head. "You're too kind."

"I'm not, truthfully. But that you think me so means a great deal."

—

Where once William had been delighted to watch the mural's slow march around the church walls, each day that it grows closer to completion fills him with a nagging sense of unease, the sour-tasting sense of dread sitting on his tongue. Indulging in the want of it is like planting a seed in salted earth, but even so he finds himself lingering on a fantasy in which Roger chooses to stay on at the church after his work is done.

"So," William says that evening as they sit in his office, making every effort at appearing unconcerned. "Do you have any plans after you leave us?"

Roger nods. "I do. My patron has recommended my work to another parish in France." He pauses, the glass of scotch in his hand still untasted. "Not that I'm opposed to the employment, but truthfully, I will miss this—more than I'd anticipated. Certainly France has no shortage of entertainments, but even so, I'm not sure anything it has to offer will compare to this experience." Does he linger on William as he says that? Imagination, surely.

"I'm wager that any enjoyment you've found here will be readily accessible in France."

He looks at William steadily now, and surely William doesn't imagine _that_ —that flicker of heat in Roger's eyes that he can nearly feel scorching his fingertips. "I'm not sure that's true."

William clears his throat, and Roger blinks a few times, his expression becoming a little more placid. "When do you leave?"

"They expect me next week. Depending on how the last fresco behaves, I may have a few days of leisure remaining, or I may be departing for the ferry as soon as my work is done."

William swallows. "So soon?"

"Alas. Much to my patron's chagrin, I've already lingered here longer than I intended."

He could leave the matter at that, but surely this isn't just him? Surely he hasn't misunderstood the slow, steady way that Roger looks at him, the warm smiles he seems to save for William alone? Would he ever forgive himself if he let Roger leave while persisting in playing the coward? He exhales, slow, then says, quietly enough that Roger can pretend not to have heard it, "And have you considered an alternative? Have you thought about lingering still?"

Roger nods. "I have." He pauses, glancing down at the drink in his hand. "But I'm not sure that would be in either of our interests."

Something cold and sharp cracks in William's chest. "What do you mean?" He hates how clearly he can hear the tremor in his voice when he says it. Hates, too, the look that Roger is giving him that can only be one of pity.

Roger sets his glass down and stands, but instead of moving for the door as William expects, he rounds the desk to where William is sitting, standing close enough now that William could count each fine line of his lashes. Slowly—slowly enough for William to understand his intent, to say _no_ if he wished—Roger rests a hand on the back of his neck, the paint-stained edge of his thumb settling on William's cheek, then leans down, catching William's mouth in a slow, lingering kiss. It's his first in nearly ten years, and William feels abruptly embarrassed at his clumsiness, the uncertainty that has their teeth bumping together. But Roger's hand is steady, and his mouth is sure, and it seems a terrible waste for William to focus on anything else when he could instead commit to memory the feel of Roger setting his skin alight.

After not nearly long enough, as far as William is concerned, Roger pulls away until William can see him clearly, an unfamiliar hitch in his breathing, his palm lingering on the curve of William's neck. 

"Were matters different, this is all I would want for my future, William, if you would have me. Had we met under other stars, know that I'd stay here with you until the end of my days."

"Then stay," William says, low and breathless in a voice he doesn't quite recognize as his own. "Stay with me, and damn the stars."

Roger runs his thumb along William's cheek again, maps the edge of William's jaw with the curve of his index finger, then lifts his hand away, stepping back until the desk is between them again. "You can't imagine how often I've hoped to hear you say that, how I dreamed—hell, how I even _prayed_ —for a world in which you loved me more than your God, but the blessing of knowing you so well is that I know you too well to believe that might ever come to pass. You say _damn the stars_ now, but you will always be a man of your faith, William, and if you allowed yourself to be torn between it and me, the guilt would wear you to the bone. I have no interest in causing you such pain, and I care far too much for how you think of me to see those feelings turned sour by regret." Roger laughs a little, but there's no humor in it. "Fuck, William. You'd think with how long I've lived that the world could no longer surprise me." He swallows, heavy. "I have rarely been accused of restraint, but—I think I should go."

William stands to meet him, but any words he plans on saying die in his throat with the ugly, painful understanding that Roger is right. Feels the pull of his oaths to God tangled so tight with the impulse to tell Roger to stay that he thinks he could choke on it, and perhaps that would be preferable to save him from having to make the decision. He doesn't know what to say, and so spends too long saying nothing at all, and that in itself is answer enough.

—

Roger has ended with Revelation. For his last piece, he has chosen the final battle between Michael and Satan, a frenetic tapestry of war between the angels that sees Michael victorious and Satan vanquished and plummeting to the earth. It is undeniably beautiful, breathtaking in its splendor, and William feels as if he might be sick whenever he catches sight of it. He and Roger have spoken little since that evening in his office, and William counts with nervous anticipation as the remaining days of Roger's tenure dwindle until there's less than a day remaining, hating that he can now measure in minutes and hours the moments until Roger departs from his life. 

He's wrong.

William arrives the following morning shortly after dawn, expecting to see Roger in the final stages of his work, but the room—for the first time in months at this hour—is empty. Instead, in the glow of the rising sun, William can see the completed fresco on the wall, resplendent as it gleams in the light. Roger must have worked through the night to finish it, and something sharp twists in William's chest. Had he done so to avoid navigating a goodbye, or had his affections been shallower than William realized? His half-completed work for the morning service is waiting in his office, but William lingers in front of the fresco until the sun is fully risen, searching through every detail as if he could find some message from Roger among the layers of paint. _Damn the stars_. What a fool he was.

His office is quiet and dimly lit, the half-finished sermon sitting on the desk where he left it. As William approaches, though, the handwriting looks unfamiliar—tight and slanted instead of his own loose scrawl. When he picks it up, William sees his own name written across the top, and the pain in his chest twists again. 

_William,_

_I am sorry for leaving like this, truly. I know you must think me a coward and a wretch, and neither would be unwarranted or unfair. I am a coward, for I knew that if I gave you the chance to say goodbye, odds are good that you would have persuaded me into not leaving at all, and I couldn't risk that. You have many years of a promising future before you, but I don't believe there's a place for me in it—as much as I might have desired otherwise._

_My past has been a complicated thing, William, and for most of it, I was not the man that you knew, nor did I expect that to change. But you are an inexplicable force, and after having spent these months with you, it proved entirely impossible not to want to become a man you would be proud to know. The sort of man you might have in your life, were circumstances different._

_I didn't say it in your office, because I feared it might have broken my heart not to hear you say it in return—or worse, perhaps, to hear it and know nothing could come of it—but I did love you._ Do _love you. Fate has rarely been kind in determining my future, but if only this once, foolish as it may be, I hope it conspires to bring our paths together again. If not, perhaps I'll have to damn the stars myself._

_Be well, and know that I will think of you often,_

_Roger Goodwin._

In the silence of his office, William weeps.


End file.
